Of Spies and Spouses
by RoseLight
Summary: Why Solo enforces paragraph 8.


'OF SPIES AND SPOUSES'

_U.N.C.L.E. Charter Section 15 Part B Paragraph 8 "Regarding personal qualifications of Section 2 field agents…."_

Napoleon Solo rubbed the bridge of his nose where he usually perched his glasses. The world looked different from the other side of 50. The office-his office, now- was dimmed and quiet, the daily bustle having dissipated in the evening and only a skeleton staff on duty.

It was a comfortable fit; even the staff had become accustomed to calling Section 1 "Solo's office." It was Friday, damp, darkening, drizzly, just right for meandering memories. Solo sent his secretary packing.

"Have a nice weekend, Leslie."

"Are you sure, Mr. Solo? I could stay and help you finish that correspondence..."

"No, no need. Just a few personal things. Go grab a pizza and attend to that long-term fiancé of yours. Just drop off that file to Personnel on your way out."

Leslie Queen studied the name on the folder. "Harrison. You're really going to transfer him?" she queried in a disapproving tone.

"Paragraph 8 is standard policy. Harrison knew that coming in. It's his choice: the lady, or the field."

Leslie was still unconvinced.

"It's just being practical. The family of an enforcement agent is always in jeopardy. There's kidnapping, blackmail, not to mention the long separations on duty. And the danger of a mentally distracted agent on the field—" Solo shuddered. "You're a romantic, Sweet Leslie. Love doesn't conquer all—it just overwhelms good sense."

"No wonder you've never married," she replied sourly.

"Now, Leslie, why would I need a wife when I have you to organize my life so thoroughly?"

"That smacks of paternalism," she snipped back at him.

"Good night, Leslie," he smiled pleasantly.

Leslie Queen did not repeat her offer to stay. Mr. Solo was a considerate boss, who inspired loyalty and trust in his organization. Their partnership in the front office rivaled that of Solo's legendary on-field partnership with Illya Kuryakin.

Like Illya, Solo could depend on Leslie to read his mind, and to know the answer to any obscure question he might pose: the difference between alligators and crocodiles; in which county was Columbus, Ohio located; recall any lyric from Sondheim to Shakespeare.

In addition, she made fine coffee; policed his appointments; baked him Christmas cookies; returned his library books, and was happily, fondly, unavailable socially.

Solo began flipping through the letters that required personal attention. The handwriting on this envelope, the return address, nothing was familiar, but when he slit it open, twenty-year-old memories spilled out. "Dear Mr. Solo..." he read it twice, three times, then began to draft his reply.

"Gentleman, it is my privilege to recommend Scott Shaunessey Macmillan for your consideration. I have known Scott and his family for many years. His father Dennis was an honored hero of the NYPD. His mother Darcy-" and there Solo stopped. Darcy was...warm, wise and wonderful; beautiful and brave. Would any of these feeble adjectives impress the administration? How did one distill that vibrant young woman to life on flat white paper?

Act 1 Car Trouble...Twenty years ago

Metal crunched metal, grinding, screeching, spinning both cars into the curb.

"Damn," Solo cursed resignedly and reached for his communicator. "Hey, Illya-the copter will have to intercept our feathered friends. My UNCLE special has just made a permanent impression on a civilian vehicle."

"Anyone hurt? Where are you?"

"I'm Ok. I'll go check the other driver. Can you notify the insurance folks?" Solo sighed. "Y'spose our great Uncle will ground me for this?"

"Well...it is your second accident this month. He may take away your car keys. I'm on the way." Kuryakin clicked off.

Solo shouldered against his door til it groaned enough for him to squeeze through. The other driver sat stunned, had not attempted to move. "Miss-? Let me help you out. Are you all right?" His voice was low and concerned.

The climax to a miserable day, Darcy thought. If she dared to move or blink or listen to that kind voice, she would cry and not be able to stop. She'd be worthless to everyone who depended on her.

Solo yanked at her door, and she pushed, and finally slid her bulk across the seat and got unsteadily to her feet. Solo settled her against the car's body and she cradled her belly protectively.

God, he thought, she must be 12 months pregnant.

"My insurance team is on the way. I can call the paramedics," Solo offered uncertainly. "Can I help you sit down? " His eyes canvassed their position quickly. "There's a coffee shop across the street where we could wait-"

The usually unflappable agent was at a loss. He held her hand and patted it absently, anxiously waiting for help.

Darcy kept her eyes closed; two plump tears rested under her lashes, but no wailing, not a sniffle. She spoke, but not for his ears. "Oh, Lord, I know you promised not to give me more than I can handle. I just wish you didn't have so much confidence in me."

Kuryakin curbed his car. "Oh, Napoleon, Napoleon," he shook his head, surveying the crash scene.

"It was an accident," Solo protested. Kuryakin's eyes traveled from his disheveled partner to the very expectant lady at the other end of his hand. The corners of his mouth twitched, his mind moving at light speed to several dry punch lines. But observing Solo's expression, which telegraphed that he had already intercepted Kuryakin's wit, the Russian had to settle for a mild " Indeed" and a raised eyebrow.

Illya turned his attention to the woman. "If we may exchange insurance information, Miss-"

"Mrs.!" she snapped suddenly. "Mrs. Dennis MacMillan. I'm surprised you haven't recognized me, after all the media coverage." At their blank faces, she formed a square with her fingers and held it in front of her face. " 'Tell us, Mrs. MacMillan, how did it feel to see your husband gutted on the 6 o'clock news?' "

"Of course," the blond recalled. "Remember, Napoleon? The police officer who was killed during an escape attempt, about four months ago."

"Four months...a week, two days and " she glanced at her watch "six hours. Just a routine prisoner transfer, not even his regular shift. Dennis was just filling in. They tell me it will get easier if I stop counting," she reported flatly.

"What do They know?" Solo replied, sotto voce. "I am so sorry, Mrs. MacMillan."

Illya groaned inwardly, knowing how UNCLE insurance operatives would protest Solo's breaking of the first commandment: Never apologize. It's an admission of liability.

"Are you sure you're all right?" In the face of her brokeness, Solo felt strong and competent and back in control.

"Just shaken up," she sought to reassure herself as well as him, "and on foot now. Actually, it's been a dreadful day all round. " Her voice cracked and she struggled for composure.

"My partner can handle the details here. Please let me take you across the street for some tea or something." Napoleon reached out to her, drawing her up carefully, gently, his patented persuasive charm reasserting itself. She looked so fragile, wreathed in tragedy.

"Your white knight armor back from the cleaner's?" Kuryakin murmured behind him.

"Well," she confessed," I have recently developed a passion for peach milkshakes."

Act 2 A Whip and a Chair...six weeks later

Illya Kuryakin experienced a supreme sense of satisfaction that he had finally corralled his partner into a quick commissary coffee. "Has it occurred to you that you've run out of eligible women in New York and you've started targeting the ineligible ones?"

"What kind of crack is that?" Solo bristled.

"Napoleon, she's barely a widow, she'll be giving birth in a matter of weeks...you get the ego gratification of playing Galahad without any long-term responsibility. Maybe that's the attraction," the Russian mused. "Or has Napoleon Solo been domesticated? Did she use a whip and a chair? Or chloroform?"

"When I am in the market for free psychoanalysis, I'll have coffee with Teddy Mason," Solo growled, referring to their colleague, UNCLE's chief psychiatrist.

"Don't be silly; the good doctor's a winebibber. Folks are noticing, Napoleon. You're chief enforcement agent; routine missions are assigned at your discretion, and—"

"And...since when have you started listening to gossip?"

Illya ignored his jibe. Solo knew full well that the enigmatic Russian was often the subject of office chatter. Illya continued, unperturbed. "People have noticed that you have not been scheduled for long-term, out-of-town missions lately."

Solo stared intently into the cream swirls circling his coffee cup before answering thoughtfully. "I've discovered there is a difference between cheating death, and preserving life. And life is harder." He knew he had been rationalizing his missions the past few months, as Darcy's delivery date approached. He had even found himself making provisions for Darcy and her young son Scott when he needed to be away.

Planning for the future-especially someone else's future-had been an alien concept for Napoleon Solo. Now, it seemed natural to think of them first.

"And do you realize I have not been invited to witness a single evening of this new-found domestic bliss?" his partner continued. "Are you ashamed of my table manners?"

"Ok, I'll deal. I'll take the next tiresome, out-of-town surveillance shift, and we'll have you over to supper after Susannah's born."

"Susannah?"

Solo grinned. "Well, we're still negotiating that. Darcy is holding out for Shannon."

Act 3 I wouldn't mind

The interlude had begun quite simply...

Solo still felt guilty for smashing Darcy's car, and pestered the insurance division to process the claim at record speed. He decided that delivering the check in person would finally absolve her from his conscience and his dreams.

The Widow MacMillan, for so he tried to think of her, answered his knock. She was still pale, and he decided on the spot that it was a good look for her; mysterious, enduring, yet delicate. How could a woman have her life invaded by evil and remain so...so visibly untouched by bitterness and anger? Solo had to know, had to understand.

"Good evening, Mrs. MacMillan."

"Mr. Solo..?" she was surprised. "I just expected an insurance check in the mail."

" The check is from the insurance...the flowers are from me." He handed her a bouquet of irises and ladylocks and she stepped back so he could cross her threshold. Darcy buried her face in the fragrant blooms and sighed appreciatively. "They're lovely. Thank you."

"You cut your hair," Solo observed, and reached out to touch the soft chestnut waves that curled around her ears. She shied back from the intimate gesture and Solo scolded himself. He fell back on casual conversation. "How have you been?"

"Oh, we muddle through," she smiled. "I'm thinking of embroidering that on a crest as our family motto. Maybe in Latin. What do you think?"

Napoleon was taking in the coziness of the apartment. Despite all circumstances, Darcy managed to keep the tidy place radiating warmth and welcome. "I think something smells wonderful."

"Left-over Irish stew. May I get you a bowl?"

"Oh, no thanks. I-"

"Of course, you must have more exciting plans for the evening." She began to shepherd him toward the door. "Thank you for the special delivery."

Suddenly it was very important to him not to be dismissed. "I'd love a bowl of left-over Irish stew. I just didn't want to put you to any trouble."

"You mean, any more trouble." But she said it with a twinkle in her eyes and a bowl in her hands.

She served him in front of the fireplace, its cheerful glow warming the room. Darcy settled into a rocking chair, put up her feet and joined him in a mug of cider.

Solo felt the floor tremble, heard the stampede before he saw the cause of it: a dark-mopped ball of energy charging into their peaceful world. Freckles glowing on his flushed, soapy skin, he launched himself into a hug across his mother. Darcy wrapped her arms around him tenderly, tightly, her cheek rubbing contentedly against the flannel pajamas until the little body squirmed away.

"Scottie, this is Mr. Solo," she presented their unexpected company to the little boy.

Her son marched over to Napoleon and stretched out his hand. "How do you do, Mr. Solo. My name is Scott MacMillan. I am 7 years old in second grade at Winslow school." Then he gave a little bow from the waist that had both adults chuckling.

"We've been working on manners, but I must admit the bow is an original," she clapped lightly, and rewarded the boy with a smile.

"I saw it on TV. Is he a friend of Daddy's?"

"Mr. Solo, as a true gentleman does, has come to say he is sorry and help fix our car," Darcy explained. Scottie's eyes grew wide and he ducked behind the rocker.

"Oh, dear," Darcy covered her face and blushed wildly, " I fear I've given you a rather colorful reputation, Mr. Solo. Please forgive me. Do you want your flowers back?"

"Noooo... but I may rethink my impulse to volunteer for washing dishes."

"You probably have your own dishes to wash."

"Yeah, but the company's better here." He peered around the chair and grinned at Scottie.

"Bedtime, Scott," Darcy reminded him.

"But Mommy—our story..."

"We always read before bedtime," she explained.

Solo pretended not to get the hint to leave. "Well, maybe I could read a chapter while you tidy the kitchen," he offered smoothly.

"Can he read?" Scottie asked with concern.

"I do not know Mr. Solo well, but I'm certain he can read-even if he can't drive."

Scottie scooted to the bookcase and drew out a well-worn hardcover with fanciful illustrations. It was Madeleine L'Engle's classic fantasy, Wrinkle in Time. "We're here-chapter 4." He hesitated. "Can I sit by you so I can see the pictures?" Solo patted the cushion beside him.

"I used to sit on Mommy's lap," he whispered, and cupped his hand to the side of his mouth," but it disappeared." He giggled as if sharing a grand mystery.

Solo, in fact, read several chapters, and half-way through Darcy returned to her rocker to enjoy his dramatic performance.

"Now, it is past bedtime," she reminded gently.

Without a word, Scott returned his precious book to its place and shook hands solemnly. "Good night, Mr. Solo. Thank you for reading. Will you come back?"

"Tell you what, Scottie. If I can't, will you call me and let me know what happens to Meg and Charles Wallace?" he handed the child an old business card and printed his personal number in large script.

Darcy took the child's hand and he clutched the card in the other. His high, thin voice carried down the hallway. "I like him, Mommy. Better'n Uncle Mike..." Solo was surprised that a child's opinion could be so flattering.

Darcy returned and settled on the other end of the sofa. "Meg and Charles Wallace discover the tesseract, travel through time and space to rescue their father, who presumably deserted them. I wondered about the wisdom of reading it now, but it's an old favorite and sometimes clinging to old favorites can be comforting."

"I'm more interested in what happens to Darcy and Scott," Solo admitted quietly.

She shrugged. "I don't know the rest of that story."

"Who's Uncle Mike?"

She looked startled.

" I told you I'm in law enforcement. Prying is my business."

Darcy answered reluctantly. " Mike Lawson was Dennis's partner. He developed a. ..proprietary attachment to us, after. I discouraged him." The determination of her expression was so incongruous, Solo had to smile.

"I just bet you did."

She chuckled softly to herself at the memory, and changed the subject. "Do you have any children, Mr. Solo?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Well, not being married, it never seemed like a practical idea."

"Ah," she shook her head sadly," I'm so sorry."

Her response put Solo off-balance, to see true sympathy in her round, pale face. For him. He had a great life: challenging, rewarding work. Thrilling social opportunities. This little lamb who had lost her mate and would struggle to raise two wee ones alone, felt she was blessed and he bereft. It was disconcerting. Out of his experience.

"I...uh…I'm sure this has been a difficult adjustment for you."

"Lord knows," she replied heavily. " I've had my weepy days, weepy weeks even. But when I get to feeling hopeless, there's Scottie, needing to learn about loyalty and kindness and courage and humor and faith. And the little one, needing to be welcomed into this world with gentleness and joy. They keep me engaged in this life. Now it's mostly my own senses and memories that ambush me: I miss tangerines and cigar smoke; the wrong song plays on the radio; the lonely lullaby of rain on the window…" her words drifted off into melancholy, so Solo brought her back.

"You could always take up cigars," he suggested helpfully, handing her one from his pocket.

She accepted it solemnly. "Of course I'll have to save it for later. Can't have Mother setting a bad example. Unless you'd like to .."

Solo hesitated. "Most ladies don't appreciate…"

"Oh, please,' she insisted, settling a hand on his. "Homey aromas, and only happy memories. I promise."

Solo lit up, preparing for a pleasure he rarely allowed himself. The smoke was mild and sweet, and she relaxed into the cushions. He smiled. He liked to see her like this, all soft and sleepy and safe. It evoked some strange comfort of something, from somewhere.

Out of habit, his arm stretched along the top of the sofa. The evening had taken a peculiar turn. Solo knew perfectly well what he would do under …well, more conventional circumstances.

It was as if she were suddenly aware of the tingling on the surface of his skin, and this time she did not shy away. "I don't believe Dennis would mind," she whispered. "And I know I wouldn't."

She inclined her face barely a millimeter nearer his. Solo kept his eyes open and focused on her, lest he misjudge her intent. But her expression remained peaceful and inviting as his lips moved slowly toward hers, and lingered.

Act 4 The Reason Why

Solo scribbled an entry in the log. He paced awhile to return blood flow to his cramped legs. He had taken the out of town, dull- as-dishwater surveillance duty to prove a point to other field agents. It was wearing on his nerves.

The unexpected knock on the door was a pleasant surprise. "Hey, Partner, I wasn't expecting you til next week. Or maybe it is next week. Damn tedious duty. I've lost all track of time. Is it Christmas yet?"

Kuryakin's expression was more serious than usual. "I asked Waverly to arrange early relief for you. You need to get back to the city."

"I'll say. Another three days of this bucolic boredom—" he stopped. "What is it?"

"Napoleon, it's Darcy." It registered somewhere in Solo's brain that Illya had never called her by name before. "There were complications. Everything happened so quickly." His friend's expression was still uncomprehending. "You need to get back," Illya repeated insistently, gently. " I'm so sorry."

"Darcy?" Solo whispered, refusing to understand what Kuryakin's presence at the stakeout meant. "The baby?"

Illya shook his head.

Epilogue

"I thought you were bringing home pizza," Illya grumbled.

"I crave something green and crunchy. Live dangerously for a change," Leslie invited.

"And you are quite aware of my culinary limitations?"

"That's why you chop and I cook." Leslie tossed various vegetables at him and pulled out the cutting board. "At least I know you're good with knives."

For a few minutes there was no sound but a kitchen concert of the sting of the blade and the sizzle of sesame oil.

"So tell me the rest of the story…" she prompted.

"Well, Napoleon got back to the city to discover everything had been taken care of without him. He had no legal standing, you see, so the NYPD Widows and Orphans Committee had settled the details. He met with the doctor, the lawyer, the union rep—our chief's very thorough, you know."

"And the little boy?"

"Went to a second cousin in Canada. Toronto, I think."

"And he never saw Scottie again?"

Kuryakin shrugged. "He recognized how impractical it would be, to raise a child as an active field agent. He knew Darcy wanted a stable home life for the boy. They exchanged letters for a good while…"

"You're tearing up," she stroked his cheek gently.

"I'm chopping onion."

"That's rutabaga," Leslie whispered. " But admit nothing."

"Whatever. If you will not allow me to concentrate…" she had come up from behind and curled her arms around him. "Young lady, you are wrinkling my apron," he warned. "May I remind you I am armed and dangerous…"

Leslie threw up her hands in a mock surrender pose. Then her interrogation began in earnest. "So, what would've happened if you had still been in section 2 when we met? Would you have been content to sneak around and play roommates?"

Kuryakin drew himself up to full dignity, and shook back his mane. "I never sneak."

"You always sneak. As if I can't tell when there's brownies on your breath."

"Occupational hazard," he muttered.

Leslie backtracked. "So that explains why he's so persnickety about paragraph 8."

"Just standard network security policy. And from personal experience, he recognizes that the unique responsibilities of active agents preclude the conflicting emotional bonds of the standard family relationship," Illya had wandered off into pedagogy. Again.

"Uh-huh. And what do you say about spies and spouses?" she challenged him.

"I say—pass me the zucchini."

Leslie bonked him on the head with the long green veggie.

finis


End file.
